The Rutabaga of the Matter
by catherder
Summary: In response to a challenge, Logan cooks a rutabaga...


**The Root(abaga) of the Matter**

**In response to a really lame challenge involving a rutabaga, and as part of the "entrance fee" to the Second Dark Angel Gathering, Vancouver, BC, July 2005**

"What is _that_?" Max asked, pointing to a more or less round, lumpy-looking object sitting on Logan's counter.

"That is a rutabaga," Logan replied, smiling.

"A rootawhat?"

"A rutabaga."

"OK. What's a rutabaga?"

"It's a root vegetable – like a turnip or parsnip."

"Right, never heard of them," Max stated flippantly.

Logan hadn't considered that Max had never seen either vegetable. "Um, a carrot? Potato? You've seen those, haven't you?"

Max nodded. "Yeah."

"Well, root vegetables grow in the ground and have to be dug up. They're very sturdy and keep for a long time."

Max stared at the rutabaga. "Ugly little bugger. Why in the world did you buy a rutabaga?"

"I didn't – There was a riot in the market. One of the produce sellers was attacked. Apparently a few disgruntled patrons felt that he was gypping them, so they overturned his cart and threw his wares at him. I was driving by when the rutabaga hit my door – "

"How badly did it dent your door?" Max asked, hefting the rutabaga in her hand. It was heavy, and with its hard waxy cover, pretty impervious to injury.

"Just a small ding." Logan grinned sheepishly. "I figured that after sustaining minor damage, the least I could do was keep it. So I got out of the car and retrieved it. I haven't seen a rutabaga in ages."

"Must mean we're in a recovery," Max stated, repeating one of Logan's mantras.

"I guess. Anyway, it's for dinner."

"Ewww" Said Max, looking at the rutabaga again. It was certainly unappetizing looking. "Whatcha gonna do with it?"

"You'll see – unless you've got some ass-kicking to do and can't stick around," Logan replied mysteriously.

"Oh no, I want to watch this," Max said, sliding off the high stool. She tossed the rutabaga to Logan, who wheeled over to the sink, turned on the water, and proceeded to scrub it vigorously.

"Find me a peeler," he ordered. Max saluted and dug into the drawer. She came up with the peeler and handed it to Logan.

He gently peeled the ugly vegetable, removing the waxy skin. When he was done, the rutabaga was a golden orange color. "See, not so ugly now."

He sliced the rutabaga into thin slices and set it aside. Opening a cabinet next to the sink, he rummaged in it until he found a small ceramic casserole dish.

"Please hand me the butter," he said to Max. "Oh, and while you're at it, find me some cheese – some mozzarella, if there's any left."

Max found the butter and some cheese. She wasn't sure if it was mozzarella, though – after all of Logan's wonderful meals, she still couldn't tell mozzarella from parmesan or cheddar. She supposed that gourmet genes weren't a priority at Manticore.

"Is this the right one?" she asked, handing Logan the paper-wrapped package.

He unwrapped it and sniffed it. "Yep, it's the right stuff." He handed it back to her. "Find a grater and grate this up for me."

Logan preheated the oven, then used the butter to grease the bottom and sides of the casserole. He laid a layer of rutabaga slices in the dish. "Max, any of that cheese ready?"

Max handed him a cup of grated cheese. "Here."

Logan carefully poured the grated mozzarella over the slices of rutabaga. "Thanks. More please." Max set to work with the grater once more. She watched as Logan cut fat pats of butter and placed them on top of the cheese.

"This isn't gonna be some low-fat dish, is it?"

"Nope, full of all the bad, but tasty things in life," Logan said as he layered more rutabaga slices on top of the butter. "More cheese?"

"Geez, what a slave driver! This better be good."

"Oh, it will be." Logan grinned again. "Trust me."

Another generous cup of grated cheese was sprinkled over the sliced rutabaga. Logan added one more layer of butter. He chopped a handful of fresh herbs and added them to the top of the mixture

"OK, all done with the preparation. Pop that into the oven, will you? Then we just sit back and wait."

Max popped the casserole into the oven.

* * *

"Umm, that smells good," Max said sometime later. 

Logan checked his watch. "It should be done in a few minutes."

"Great, I'm starving." Max jumped up from the couch. "I'll set the table."

By the time the table was set and Logan had poured the wine, the casserole was done. He took the dish from the oven and placed it on the counter. Max carried the steaming casserole to the table.

"Now, you are about to taste rutabaga," Logan declared as he dug into the mixture with a large serving spoon. He served a large helping to Max and put a slightly smaller one on his own plate. "Try it," he urged.

Max carefully took a bite. "Ummm, it's delicious. It tastes kind of like white pizza."

"Yeah, rutabaga pizza," Logan agreed.

Max ate in silence, savoring each bite, as Logan looked on in amusement. He ate his own helping, then took a second, as did Max.

"Logan, you never fail to amaze me. How did you ever learn that an ugly, hard thing like a rutabaga would ever taste so good?" Max asked, pouring herself another glass of wine.

"A misspent youth studying literature and languages. I inherited all my folks' books, among other things. One book was an Italian cookery book published in the 15th century."

"You mean I'm eating something from a 500-year old recipe?" Max asked incredulously.

Logan nodded. "Uh, yep, you are."

"You really do never fail to amaze me. Do me a favor, will you? Just make sure that the next time someone throws something at your car it tastes as good as this."

"I'll see what I can do, Max."

They both laughed.

**The End**

**A/N**: The recipe ("Armoured Turnips") is from _Platina: De honesta voluptae_, published in 1475. Recipe available upon request.


End file.
